


blood thicker than silver

by keep_swinging, rainstorm97



Category: Z-O-M-B-I-E-S (Disney Movies)
Genre: Angst, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Might Add More Tags Later When It's Not 5am, Minor Appearances from Wynter and Other Main Characters, Saved at the Last Second, Whump, sibling fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22921984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keep_swinging/pseuds/keep_swinging, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainstorm97/pseuds/rainstorm97
Summary: The second Wyatt enters the house, someone shoves a drink into his hand. “Hey guys, welcome to the party! Have a drink, dance, and enjoy yourselves!” Some random jock says before disappearing back into the crowd of people.“I hate this already,” Willa mutters.“Oh, lighten up, sis,” Wyatt says with a smirk, and promptly chugs his drink. “Who knows? You might actually have some fun.”
Relationships: Wyatt Lykensen & Willa Lykensen
Comments: 18
Kudos: 46





	blood thicker than silver

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys. 
> 
> It's like four in the morning right now so I don't really have much to say about this other than that this was a prompt from over on Tumblr that spiraled into something massively huge, completely by accident. I hope you guys enjoy this, and comments would make my night! (Morning? I don't know just know comments mean a lot with huge works like this, lol.)
> 
> Prompt: Hmm what about a Wyatt and Zed are like hanging out in the forbidden forest or something and one of the other students wants to see what happens to a werewolf when they touch or ingest silver? (maybe it's a accident but still) Sorry am a sucker for werewolves and silver  
> Note: Prompt changed only in that it's Wyatt and Willa, instead of Wyatt and Zed.
> 
> Huge huge huge shout-out to rainfallingfromthesky over on Tumblr who helped me write this, came up with literally almost all of the plot, and helped motivate me to finish this within a week, lol. Thank you so, so much, and I can't wait to pick your brain for future stories! 
> 
> Warnings for violence, among other things, with this story!

Junior Year at Seabrook High starts with the werewolves being invited to one of the biggest parties of the year.

Willa had voiced her opinion of not wanting to go, but the rest of the pack including Wyatt and Wytner, had wanted to so after a little bit of convincing from her brother’s end, here she stands, already frowning at what she can hear from inside the house.

“I can’t believe you convinced me to go to this,” she voices, her words making her brother chuckle as he takes the lead and closes his claws around the door knob.

“I can’t believe I was able to convince you at all,” he shoots back before turning the knob and pushing the door open.

The second Wyatt enters the house, someone shoves a drink into his hand.

“Hey guys, welcome to the party! Have a drink, dance, and enjoy yourselves!” Some random jock says before disappearing back into the crowd of people.

The music is loud, thumping the very floor they’re standing on and there’s people everywhere, like ants swarming a nest. The lights are different colors as they spin around the massive foyer, creating rainbows on the walls. There’s cheering coming from what Wyatt can assume is the kitchen off to the right, which is also where he can assume the beer keg is located.

There’s a beer pong table set up next to the grand staircase, a good amount of people gathered around it and moving to the hip-hop song that’s currently playing.

The place is absolutely _huge_ and easily the biggest house any of the werewolves have ever seen.

“I hate this already,” Willa mutters, taking a sip of her drink that had also magically appeared in her hand. Wynter immediately vanished over to the beer pong table, as the two siblings surveyed the scene.

“Oh, lighten up, sis,” Wyatt says with a smirk, and promptly chugs his drink. “Who knows? You might actually have some fun.” Flicking the red solo cup aside, he walks further into the house, searching for another drink.

He finds what he’s looking for in the kitchen, another random jock noticing his entrance through all the cheering and passing him another cup with a boisterous laugh. Wyatt’s eyes land on the keg and the group formed around it and he grins, downing the second cup just as easily as the first.

Tonight is going to be a very good night, he thinks to himself as he reaches for another cup.

* * *

It took until the next day for Wyatt to notice something was wrong.

He was sitting in class, trying to ignore the pain in his stomach and the pounding in his head, when suddenly a wave of nausea rushed over him. Without a word, he ran out of the classroom, down the hall to the bathrooms, and just barely made it in time to throw up in the toilet.

A few minutes later, his stomach now empty yet still churning with nausea, Wyatt groans quietly and scrubs a hand over his face, squeezing his eyes shut.

There’s pain shooting through his stomach, making him wince as he exhales shakily and leans his forehead into the crook of his arm, waiting for the pain to pass. He figures it’s the alcohol from the night before hitting him all at once, as he had easily drank enough himself to rival the football team, but his stomach feels horrible, spasming and clenching, attempting to empty more, even when there’s nothing there.

He holds the feeling off for a while but soon it gets the better of him and he’s leaning over the toilet again, coughing and sputtering.

He doesn’t hear the bathroom door open, and he only realizes that there’s someone standing behind him when that someone clears their throat, drawing Wyatt’s attention.

He slumps back against the bathroom stall, sagging against the side of the toilet and looking up at the teenager in front of him with the best glare he can muster. “What?” He snaps weakly, trying his best to keep his voice strong.

The human in front of him holds out his hand, offering two little white pills.

“Hey, I’m Brett,” he says in greeting. “I overheard you uh, well,” he gestures vaguely to Wyatt, still sitting on the floor, holding onto the toilet for support. “These will help you,” he finishes, nodding towards the pills in his hand.

Wyatt looks down at Brett’s hand and then back up at his face, raising a single eyebrow.

He’s got black hair, cut short, shaved on the sides and green eyes that Wyatt, for some reason, doesn’t like. He’s wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, brand new shoes, and a silver chain around his neck with the letter M hanging from it.

His friendly composure doesn’t crumble at Wyatt’s standoffish attitude.

Instead he chuckles, taking a step closer. “I’m not poisoning you,” he says, sounding genuine, “you were at the party last night, right?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt replies, squeezing his eyes shut as another wave of pain shudders through him

“Drank too much?” He asks knowingly.

Wyatt grumbles something under his breath but nods anyway and that’s all it takes as Brett closes the distance between them, depositing the pills into Wyatt’s open palm.

“It’s just Advil. We’ve all been there, including me, and trust me, it works wonders on hangovers.” Wyatt opens his eyes, glancing from Brett to the pills now in his hand. After thinking about it for a second and deciding he’s got nothing to lose with the pain he’s currently experiencing from his stomach he lifts them to his mouth and swallows them dry.

Brett’s lips quirk upward, forming a smile. “Need something to wash it down with?”

Wyatt shakes his head.

He sits there for a few minutes, Brett asking him how he’s feeling here and there, but otherwise staying silent and just being there for him.

True to Brett’s words, the werewolf starts to feel better, the pain in his stomach starting to slowly dissipate and, more importantly, clearing the pounding in his head. He sits up and Brett gives him another smile, looking pleased.

“Told you so,” he says, shrugging. “That shit works wonders.”

The bell rings, saving Wyatt from having to answer as he slowly gets to his feet, still feeling slightly weak but overall much better off than he was.

“I gotta go,” Brett says as he grips his sports duffel, rocking on his feet. “But listen, I’ll take care of you this week because my friend put too much alcohol in the punch. This is why I usually host all the parties.”

Wyatt scoffs, starting to shake his head. “No, it’s cool, you don’t have to—”

“No, no I want to, I feel bad. It’s the least I can do, alright?” Not waiting for a response he smiles one last time before making his way out of the bathroom.

Wyatt shakes his head, his lips twitching into a smile despite himself, before making his way back to class, grabbing his things and hightailing it to his next class.

The bell rings as he steps through the door and Willa’s eyes follow him to his seat in front of her as the teacher shuffles his papers around and looks for the warm-up sheet he had set aside for his class.

As soon as Wyatt’s in his seat, bag thrown at his feet, Willa gives him all of two seconds to pull out his notebook before questioning him.

“Wanna explain why you were throwing up in chem today?”

Wyatt sighs, turning around to face his sister, resting one arm on the back of his chair as his eyes lock with hers.

“The alcohol just didn’t settle well with me, alright? Nothing more.” He says, his voice low under the chatter of the rest of the class.

Willa gives him a look, even going as far as raising an eyebrow.

She knew he had drank more than she would’ve liked, she was there with him after all, but in no way did he drink enough to warrant darting out of class without an explanation and then come to his next smelling as foul as he did (to her werewolf nose, anyways), consistent with her inkling that he had thrown up _a lot_.

“Wyatt,” she states, going to reach for his arm. He shifts back, giving her a stern look.

“Willa, I’m fine. Let it go.”

They stare at each other, and Willa wants to fight him on it, she really does, but he looks tired and like he’s not going to listen to a word she says. The teacher calls attention, beginning roll, and she lets the matter drop.

* * *

By lunch, Wyatt seems to be back to himself.

They’re barely two weeks into the school year but they’ve already found a table to call theirs, off to the corner and out of the way, big enough to fit everyone they call family.

Wyatt, his appetite having returned in full force, is halfway through a barely cooked chicken wing, hot sauce sticking to his lips as he chews noisily.

Willa rolls her eyes at her brother’s horrible manners, Wynter too busy talking with Bree to notice and comment herself. Zed and Addison are watching him eat with expressions equally impressed and disgusted from the other side of the lunch table, Eliza conversing quietly with Bonzo on the other side of Addison.

The rest of the wolf pack is divided between the end of their table and the next, all laughter and sharp fangs tearing into various forms of meat.

Wyatt takes two more sloppy bites of his lunch before Willa snaps her head toward her brother, annoyance scribbled across her face. “Would closing your mouth while you chew really hurt you?” She mutters angrily, giving him a pointed glare.

Wyatt chuckles, his mouth still full as he responds to her. His lips curl into his classic smirk and Willa’s eyes narrow. “Since it annoys you so much, I think I’ll keep doing it, thank you.” And with that settled he takes a huge bite, chewing even more obnoxious than before, if that was even possible.

Willa shoves her shoulder into his and he laughs and shoves her back, ever the immature little brother. Just as she’s about to really let him have it, someone clears their throat and everyone looks over, finally noticing the group of jocks standing at the front of their table with, almost too friendly, smiles.

Willa doesn’t waste any time. “What do you want?”

Half the group chuckles and the other half stay silent—Wyatt doesn’t know if they’re threatened by his sister or impressed, but usually it was the former, even when it came to rowdy, annoying jocks.

These guys were big, easily the size of Wyatt and some of the other packmates in body muscle but a few a bit taller. There’s five of them, and after staring at them for a long moment Wyatt recognizes them as seniors from the football team, some defense, some runners.

One of the teens in the back of the group pushes his way forward and Willa’s understandably surprised when her brother greets the new face like he already knows him, the two sharing a fist-bump.

“You know him?” She asks in disbelief and Wyatt chuckles, sharing a look with the jock.

“Brett,” the jock supplies, his green eyes meeting Willa’s, “and these are the guys.”

At Willa’s silence, he meets the eyes of everyone else at the lunch table.

“My friends and I wanted to invite you all to a party I’m having at my house this Friday. There’ll be food, drinks, dancing, beer pong,” he shrugs, his eyes settling on Wyatt. “Tons of fun stuff.”

Addison raises an eyebrow from where she’s leaning into Zed’s shoulder, straightening up and challenging the offer. “You’re okay with having zombies and werewolves at your house? For a party?” She sounds skeptical and rightfully so.

For someone like Brett to invite them too?

She had never had any personal encounters with the senior but Zed talked to him once or twice here and there, and he always told Addison he just had a bad feeling about him, after every conversation they had.

Brett chuckles as one of his friends answers for him.

“The more the merrier. This is our last year here so we want to start it off right. There’ll even be a keg,” he adds in and Wyatt’s eyes light up at the mention.

Brett’s gaze returns to the wolf as one of his other friends asks, “You drink?”

Wyatt spares a glance at Willa who glares right back, already fully aware of her brother’s tendency to accidentally pluck a bottle or two of beer from the liquor store after it’s locked up for the night, offering her the second bottle with a sheepish smile when she catches him sneaking back into the wolf den after.

He didn’t do it often but he enjoyed the buzz of the alcohol as it entered his system, fogging his wolf-senses enough that he could shut out the rest of the world for a while, just him and the night sky and a stolen cold one clutched in one hand.

“Occasionally,” Wyatt says with a smirk. “So, no tricks? You just want to have one hell of a party?” He asks for the sake of his family, if nothing else. He trusts Brett enough because of earlier, but he knows his family does not.

Brett tilts his head in a nod.

Wyatt’s smirk widens. “We’ll be there.”

“Alright man! That’s what’s up!”

He reaches his hand out and fist-bumps Wyatt’s with a grin before one of his buddies passes something to him, Brett grabbing it and handing it over to Wyatt.

“Here man, a cold one on us,” he says as Wyatt’s claws close around the soda, still cold from the vending machine. Brett also hands over a burger, grease covering the white paper that’s wrapped tightly around it.

“Be there, Friday at six. Big white house on the outskirts of town, right by the woods, you can’t miss it. Blue door.” Brett says before taking a step back and re-joining his group of friends.

“See you around, Wyatt.” He smiles a final time and just like that the group of jocks is on their way out of the cafeteria, joking and talking loudly to one another as they go.

Wyatt watches them go, smirking to himself before popping open the Pepsi bottle with a quick twist of the cap.

The soda hisses and fizz bubbles to the top as he takes a long swig, and when he looks back over to the people surrounding him, he’s met by glares of varying degrees. Addison and Willa’s are the worst because their glares are paired with what seems like disappointment but he simply rolls his eyes and takes another swig of his drink.

“What?” He says with a chuckle, looking from Addison to Zed and then to his sister.

Eliza is looking at him carefully, like she’s waiting for something, and Bonzo is just staring with a slight raise to his eyebrows. Even Bree and Wynter have stopped conversing, their attention now on him. Wynter looks disappointed too.

“Guys I don’t see any harm in going to one more high school party—”

“You just want to go because you heard there would be a keg,” Willa hisses, turning to face him. “It’s not safe to go partying with _humans_ , Wyatt.”

Wyatt scoffs, “Says who?”

He looks around the table, but everyone stays silent, completing his point.

Unwrapping the burger in one quick movement, he goes to lift it to his lips when Willa reaches out and grips his shoulder, her claws cutting through his jacket. “What are you doing?” She asks, sounding bewildered.

Wyatt stares back at her, his mouth agape. “I _was_ going to eat this burger but now—”

“Are you crazy?” She says, raising her voice, drawing the attention of some of their packmates at the other end of the table.

“Willa,” Wyatt tries, but she interrupts him.

“Don’t eat that. Or drink anymore of that,” she says, sounding worried, but only her brother picks up on that certain tone in her voice. “I don’t trust those guys, Wyatt, I’m serious.”

Her brother shakes his head, lifting the burger to his lips and biting into it, giving her a pointed look afterwards.

“Brett helped me out earlier, so I trust him enough. Offering food is a sign of good faith, Willa, you know this.” His words were true and she knew exactly what he was talking about.

In werewolf culture, for centuries, the offering of food from a different species was a sign of good faith and good health. It was a tradition that had been followed for years but Willa . . .

She didn’t know what to think.

Wyatt barrels on, his focus switched back to the party.

“We all know there hasn’t been an attack on neither zombies or werewolves in over six months. That’s something we’ve never had before and the last attack was some middle-aged man, not a high school teenager.” His eyes find their way back to Willa’s, pleading with her. “We’re all teenagers right now, believe it or not. What’s wrong with wanting to have a little bit of fun?”

His words seem to persuade his fellow packmates at the table but Bonzo and Bree back out and so does Eliza, who says she rather jailbreak her new computer than stand on her head and try and chug an entire keg in one sitting. Addison and Zed share a look between one another before also opting out, Addison giving one last protest about how she doesn’t trust it, not one bit.

Which just left Wynter and Willa.

He turns to face them, the soda from Brett already halfway gone.

“Come on guys,” he urges, looking to Wynter. “I know you enjoy a good game of beer pong, and maybe at the party you’ll have actual competition.” Wynter’s face breaks into a smile, a giggle escaping her because yes, Wyatt was not _at all_ good at beer pong, even sober.

Sometimes, when Willa was out training the were-pups, Wyatt, Wynter and the other werewolves would create their own games of beer pong, either with or without the alcohol, which was usually determined by if his sister was in a good mood that day or not. If she was in a good mood, she would scold Wyatt and Wynter both for a few minutes and then let it go. If she was in a bad mood, she would place Wyatt on watch duty, which was easily his most hated job as a werewolf.

Wynter however always, _always_ wiped the floor with him and then he usually had to actually wipe the floor afterward because—for some reason—his balls always seemed to knock the cups down instead of staying in them.

“I had a lot of fun playing beer pong with people other than werewolves last night,” Wynter admits, ducking her head down when Willa looks over at her.

“C’mon, sis,” Wyatt pleads, drawing her attention back to him. “One more party. We all go to one more party together and have some fun.”

After a few moments of silence, Willa finally sighs, giving in. “One more party,” she says, reaching over and snatching the last chicken wing off her brother’s plate. He gives her a smirk as she takes a bite, chewing with her mouth _closed_ , might she add.

Wynter and the other wolves at the table celebrate quietly amongst themselves, extremely excited about being able to do something so un-wolflike.

“You won’t regret it,” Wyatt promises, and Willa just shakes her head before taking another bite.

* * *

Throughout the rest of the week, Wyatt finds himself being talked to by Brett and his friends more often. After lunch on Monday, the rest of the day goes quite smoothly, even if Willa avoids talking to him for the rest of the day and even chooses to eat dinner alone later that night.

By midnight she’s speaking to him again as they go out on patrol, scouting out the area around their den and making sure no new threats or traps or anything of the sort was awaiting their packmates the next time they wanted to go out.

Willa admits that she’s worried about going to the party as a group, even saying that she thinks she should stay back in case the worse happens, and that going to one party wasn’t as worrisome as going to two in the same week.

He quells her fears, reminding her that nothing had happened at the party they had gone to Sunday night and how even if something _were_ to happen, it would be some spineless humans against nearly an entire pack of _werewolves_.

Willa feels better about the party after they talk and Tuesday rolls around with bright sun and blistering temperatures.

It’s fifteen minutes into second period and Wyatt is already feeling the effect of the heat in a school with a broken air conditioner (something the school board had refused to fix during winter), beads of sweat rolling down his neck.

Math is the only class he has alone, spare for some background zombies he never learned the names of in the back of the classroom.

One of Brett’s friends, who introduces himself as Kyle, offers him a bottle of water, perspiration coating the outside wrapper. Wyatt thanks him and downs the entire thing in less than five minutes and is almost sad that Kyle only had one bottle instead of three.

Him and Kyle chat the rest of the class—Kyle’s taller, with a long neck, a mop of brown hair, a sharp jawline and even sharper eyes—and when Willa asks him how his day is going their next class together, he tells her it’s going great.

Wednesday is nothing special, unless you count Brett bringing Wyatt a hoagie for lunch and telling him it’s going to be the best thing he’s ever tasted.

Wyatt doesn’t believe him but he tries the cold, fat, deli sandwich anyway, and when his fangs meet meat, meat and more meat on a soft piece of bread—and is that a layer of cheese in there too?—his mouth waters for more and he devours the whole thing in minutes.

Wynter looks offended that he didn’t offer her any—usually they were the taste-testers of the pack—and Brett hands him a thermos from his bag so that he can wash the food down. Wyatt takes it, chugs, and Brett laughs, slapping him on the shoulder with a smirk.

Willa narrows her eyes at the two’s friendliness but says nothing, and the rest of the day goes on uneventfully.

Brett brings Wyatt breakfast, a hoagie, and lunch, another hoagie, on Thursday, and the wolf finds himself talking to Brett more than to the wolves that day. After school is over Willa asks him to go hunting with her, and they catch up on the events of the day.

“I don’t like how close you’re getting to Brett,” she says bluntly as they’re crouching in a bush together, waiting for the stag in front of them to stop walking around so that they can pounce.

Wyatt doesn’t look over, keeping his eyes trained on their next meal.

“What, I can’t be friends with humans now?” He questions her, the stag coming to a stop in front of a fresh patch of grass a few feet away.

“No.” She exhales as he slowly makes his way out of the bush, moving around it to gain some ground. “I just want you to be careful, brother.”

Wyatt ignores her, instead focusing all of this energy on the stag.

He’s still for seven seconds before he jumps into the air and pounces, killing the animal before it can even make a sound. Willa’s at his side soon after, glancing down at his bloodied claws. Wyatt meets her eyes then, smiling that smile he rarely uses anymore, the one he knows she can’t argue against.

“I always am, sister.”

Willa just hopes that he’s right.

* * *

Finding Brett’s house is easy enough, considering it’s one of the few mansions in Seabrook with long glass windows that have chandlers peeking out through the pristine window panes.

The door is painted an ugly shade of blue but the trim around it is gold and so is the knob that Wyatt grips as he pushes the door open. Upon entering, there’s cheers from around them as people raise their purple solo cups high in the air.

“The wolves are here!” Somebody in the back of the room shouts over the music and the whole room hoots and hollers. Wyatt shares a glance with Willa, who is already rolling her eyes and muttering under her breath.

Everyone resumes what they had been doing as Brett and Kyle push their way to the front of the crowd, a third member of their group trailing behind them.

His name was Austin, if Wyatt remembered correctly, brown hair styled short, always wore a football jersey and jeans, a single silver stud in his left ear.

Brett grins wide as he approaches the wolves, but his eyes stay on Wyatt.

“Welcome, welcome!” He yells, the bass of the music shaking the entire mansion. “Enjoy yourselves my new were-friends,” some of the pack laughs, “nothing is off limits here and there’s plenty of drinks to go around!”

The pack cheers and begins to separate, some taking off towards the living room to the left, others to the staircase, some even taking off to the backyard, fully planning to enjoy the inground pool they had spotted on their way over.

Brett waits until it’s just Wyatt, Willa and Wynter standing there before turning and pointing out the hallway between the wall and the stairs. “The kitchen is right down there. The boys and I wanted to show you a surprise cocktail we’ve been working on.” He shouts, his words directed at Wyatt.

The wolf nods and the three teens slowly walk off in the direction of the kitchen, chuckling and talking with one another.

Wyatt turns to face his sister and friend, immediately noticing Wynter’s eyes flickering over to the living room, where there’s a very competitive game of beer pong going on, some of the wolves already over there cheering along with the humans.

“Go on,” he tells her, Wynter’s eyes flicking over to his, “Willa wants to talk to me for a second anyway. She’ll meet you in there.”

Wynter doesn’t need to be told twice and smiles at them both before running over, pushing aside someone with a growl and taking their spot. Wyatt chuckles quietly before returning his attention to Willa, and he feels like she sees right through him.

“Why are you out of breath?”

Friday had come faster than the pack expected.

Willa had noticed on the walk over that Wyatt was out of breath by the time they had gotten to the house, which was strange.

He was the strongest member of the pack, second only to her, and something so simple had never worn him out so quickly before. She hadn’t noticed anything else physically wrong with him after keeping a close eye on him since, but there was still something in her gut telling her that something was wrong, that whatever her brother said next was going to be a lie.

She doesn’t know how she knows, maybe from being the alpha, or maybe because he’s the only true family she has left and she damn well knows him better than anyone else.

Maybe it’s because when he’s weak, he’s extremely easy to read.

“I’m not out of breath,” he deflects, well, weakly.

The truth was that Wyatt had been feeling odd all week.

First it was getting sick from the alcohol on Monday, but the rest of the week he had just been feeling _off_. Simple tasks, like walking or running or pouncing, would tire him out and he found himself going to bed early and sleeping in later. His body just felt out of sorts and in turn was affecting his day to day life, but in a subtle way that he was able to hide from (mostly) everybody.

“You’re worrying over nothing,” he finally says, admitting the truth.

Willa looks at him, her jaw twitching. “I’ve known you your whole life. The last time you’ve been out of breath from walking? Never. Running? Maybe when you were ten but walking, never Wyatt, never.”

He shakes his head.

“I’m fine, Willa. Have been this whole week. You’re just acting paranoid because you don’t want to be here.” He glances over to the hallway leading to the kitchen, watching teenagers mull in and out. His eyes return to Willa’s. “Go play some beer pong with Wynter. Live a little. Be a teenager.”

Taking a step closer, he grabs her hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “I’m fine, Willa. I promise.” Then he’s taking off down the hallway and bombarded by the rest of Brett’s friend group as he enters the kitchen.

Willa watches him go, her lips pinched in a straight line, because it feels like her brother just told her a lie. She watches a second more before joining Wynter in the living room and doing her best to shove her worries for her brother as deep down as they will go.

“Wyatt! You made it!” Avery shouts as he thumps the werewolf on the back, Sanchez doing the same on Wyatt’s otherside. They drag him over to where Brett, Kyle and Austin are mixing something at the counter, dumping this in and that, grabbing what seems like anything they can get their hands on.

It happens fast.

Wyatt’s shoved to the front of the kitchen island, Brett’s handing him a purple solo cup filled to the brim and reeking of pure alcohol, and Wyatt’s chugging before his brain can catch up.

He doesn’t notice the way Brett grins at him, or the looks Kyle and Austin share, or the laughs Avery and Sanchez give each other. All five of them, and everyone else in the room, cheers after he’s finished and Wyatt grins, laughing loudly. He could do this all night.

But something’s wrong.

All of a sudden, there’s a sharp pain in his stomach, immobilizing him.

He winces, biting back a growl of pain, and clutches at his stomach, the pain starting to build and growing worse by the second. Air, he thinks, he needs air. He turns around and makes his way down the hallway in one piece, coming to a stop near the middle of the room.

A cough slithers it’s way up through his throat, and the force of it rattles his lungs, jolting his entire body. The pain in his stomach starts to burn, red hot fire roaring inside of him. He feels like he could be sick but he’s afraid it’ll be nothing but blood.

Something’s wrong, something’s majorly wrong, he thinks in a panic, doing his best to mask the pain as he pushes through groups of dancing teenagers, the door only just out of his reach when—

“Wyatt.”

That’s his sister, sounding a million miles away. He buries his pain as well as he can, stopping and turning to his right, waiting for her as she walks up to him, her brows furrowed in worry once she realizes what expression is actually on his face.

“Are you okay?”

Wyatt can feel her piercing gaze as it burns a hole through him, sees right through him, and goes to answer but a cough makes its way out instead. She looks suspicious of him, her hand flinching from where it rests at her side, almost like she wants to reach out for him.

“I’m fine. I think I just need some fresh air,” he says, forcing his tone to steady. When she doesn’t answer he goes to the door and pulls it open, one foot over the threshold when his sister catches his attention again.

“Hey,” she calls, stopping him in his tracks. “Stay safe.”

He turns back towards her and gives her his signature smirk in all its glory, but she can see the pain hiding behind it.

“Always, sister.” He says back, and then he’s gone.

* * *

Wyatt’s feet immediately take him to the woods behind Brett’s house, yearning for something safe and familiar through the pain that’s currently ripping through his body.

It feels like his stomach is burning from the inside out, and his throat for that matter too. His legs feel weak, like his knees could give out any second, and he doesn’t even have the strength to lift his arms and run.

The fresh air of the woods does do him one favor and cool off his heated cheeks, and bring relief to his aching limbs, but besides that, not much else. He stumbles through some sticks, tramples through some mud and nearly falls over the roots of trees that twist and intertwine below his feet.

The sky grows darker, fading into a deep orange as he continues on, snatching away more sunlight as the evening turns into night.

The party was earlier than the one on Sunday because Brett’s parents were out of town, so his house was open-invite by six.

He comes to a stop a few moments later, trying to take a deep breath but coughing as he does so, irritating his stomach, more pain flaring through him. He groans, reaching out for the closest tree trunk and leaning against it, his stomach roaring.

Bile crawls up his throat and he clamps his mouth shut, not wanting to feel that same burning on his lips and fangs. He has half a mind to howl and hope that a packmate will hear him, because _he’s not right_ —

_Snap!_

Wyatt jerks his head towards the noise, his ears perking as he listens for any other noises.

Twenty seconds pass before he hears another twig snap off to his left. As he turns his head that way, leaves crunch from the right and he whips his head, still seeing nothing.

Something inside of him tells him to run.

Something inside of him tells him _it’s not safe here_.

He runs.

He stumbles at first as he pushes himself off the bark, but gains a somewhat better balance as he takes off in a direction where he didn’t hear any noises.

It could be werewolf hunters, hungry for a new catch. Brett’s house wasn’t far from the den, but these woods were unaccounted for, or at least, he doesn’t remember ever scouting through them. The thought instills a new fear in him, urging him to run faster, though his legs don’t seem capable of even running at all. 

Distracted by his thoughts and the pain still shuddering through him, his foot catches in a root and he trips, slamming into the ground hard enough that his nose begins to throb.

He bites back a cry and rolls onto his back, his stomach tossing.

He barely has time to topple onto his side before alcohol coats the ground, unpleasant all the way up, scorching his lips and fangs as he predicted it would. He rolls back onto his back, feeling as though his entire body was doing nothing but shutting down on him, one organ at a time. 

He hears more fallen branches snapping as whoever it is gets closer, and that same something inside of him tells him to run again, more urgently.

_It’s not safe-it’s not safe-it’s not safe-it’s-not-_

But Wyatt feels weak, feels like he’s falling apart from the inside out, and finds it too demanding to try and climb back to his feet. He lays there, breathing heavily, his heart thumping faster as he hears at least five different pairs of feet approach him.

Relief floods him when Brett’s smiling face comes into view as he holds out his hand.

“Hey dude,” he says, his deep voice rumbling through the expanse of the forest surrounding them. “Saw you ran out of the party pretty quick. You alright?”

Wyatt takes his hand and Brett carefully pulls him up and into a sitting position, the wolf groaning softly as he lets go of the jock’s hand to grab at his stomach. Brett gestures to Avery and Sanchez beside him, “Here, let’s help you up—”

Both jocks offer their hands and Wyatt nods and grabs them both. They tug him to his feet, Brett placing a steadying hand on his shoulder as soon as he’s standing. “You good?” He asks and Wyatt nods, going to open his mouth and say a quiet thanks.

Before he can, his arms are wrenched behind his back.

Panic seizes him as he hears the loud _click_ of handcuffs as they go over his wrists and he immediately begins to struggle against the two sets of hands holding onto his arms.

“What are you doing?” He shouts, his raspy voice echoing off the trees.

Brett’s watching him with a blank expression and a growl rips from the back of Wyatt’s throat as he elbows Avery, but before he can do much else, Sanchez, after fumbling with the key for the cuffs, is able to secure them, and as soon as the cuffs are locked together, there’s a sinking feeling in Wyatt’s gut.

Burning, the same type of burning that he had been dealing with the entire time he’s been in the forest, arcs across both his wrists, sizzling his bare skin.

Silver, he thinks in a panic, struggling against the two jocks more.

Silver cuffs.

Fighting against them is useless because he’s strong, he’s the beta of the pack afterall, but the weakness he’s been feeling all week paired with the pain still surging through him now is enough to have him beat. Every movement he makes doesn’t even throw them, their grips on his biceps just becoming more and more bruising after each push.

True terror finally racing through him, his wild eyes meet Brett’s, who's giving him a twisted smile. “What are you doing? What is this?”

_None of this is right._

Brett laughs, Austin and Kyle snickering from behind him, cruel smiles covering both of their faces too. “Well, we heard there was a stray mutt wandering around the forest, so we figured we’d try to catch it before it got too hurt.”

He laughs after saying it, the sound sending shivers up Wyatt’s spine.

A fresh wave of pain tears through him, making him wince and attempt to pull his arms back again. The jocks behind him squeeze his arms tighter and Brett smirks when he notices how much pain the werewolf is truly in.

“Man,” he jokes, eyeing both jocks holding on to Wyatt. “Some guys just can’t hold their silver.”

A chorus of laughter echoes around Wyatt and his stomach drops. Realization dawns on him all at once, and panic nearly chokes him.

The burger and soda Brett gave him on Monday. The water bottle Kyle offered him on Tuesday. The hoagies and drinks on Wednesday and Thursday. The cocktail they brewed for him while he was talking to Willa.

The cocktail he _chugged_ after they had shoved it towards him.

His eyes meander over to the spot where he had gotten sick, and his eyes catch on little bits in the mess that are shining, sparkling under the little light left in the sky.

Silver. 

He struggles harder against the jocks holding him, a new fear awakening inside of him. This wasn’t safe, none of this was safe and Brett had been poisoning him all week without Wyatt suspecting a thing. He needed to get out of here, needed to call for help, do something—

He needed Willa.

He needed to howl.

He needed to howl and call Willa.

“Oh, but before we continue,” the jock turns and holds out his hand expectantly to Austin, who searches in his pockets for something and once he finds it he pulls out—

_No._

_No,_ Wyatt thinks, panic surging through him.

No. _Anything_ but that.

"Can't have you howling for help, now can we?" The jock sneers, and before Wyatt can think to move, speak, howl or anything—

His face _burns_.

“You like it?” Brett asks. “It’s an old werewolf muzzle I found in my granddad’s stuff. Seemed like the perfect occasion to use it.”

Wyatt feels like if he moves, he might die, between the pain in his stomach, the burning around his wrists and now the burning on his face. He struggles to keep his breathing even, knowing that throwing himself into a panic attack won’t do anything for him but make things worse.

Keeping his breathing even is hard, however, and he finds himself attempting to breathe through his nose to keep his mouth from moving too much.

Brett notices.

His eyes flash with malice and in one swift step forward he’s pinching his thumb and forefinger over Wyatt’s nose. “None of that, mutt, come on now. I want to see you hurt.”

Wyatt holds off as long as he can, but he’s already too weak.

He has no choice but take in a deep breath in through his mouth, which jostles the muzzle, and a growl escapes him, warped by pain. Brett’s next smile is malevolent in every possible way.

"Now that,” he mutters, releasing Wyatt’s nose and taking a step back, “is what I like to hear.” Wyatt’s eyes bore into his, full of livid anger, another growl already building in the back of his throat, his claws craving blood.

He wants to talk, tell Brett what he really thinks, but he can’t. He wants to rip Brett’s throat out, burn him, an eye for an eye. Wyatt wants to do a lot of things, but he can’t.

Seabrook wasn’t kind to monsters.

That was a fact. It’s been a fact for over a hundred years, ever since they took fire to their dens and created silver landmines, forcing them off land that wasn’t rightfully theirs. They speared them through the heart, shattered more moonstones than glass and enjoyed pinning them up for the rest of the town to see, a mockery of a culture that was more advanced than theirs.

In some ways, things got better over time.

But they also got worse, in ways no human would bat an eye at, but to werewolves . . .

The way the humans told the story, the Z-Patrol was created after zombies came to be. This wasn’t true. Because werewolves had been there first, and humans were greedy about everything they could get their hands on, and they weren’t willing to share.

So, before the Z-Patrol _was_ the Z-Patrol, it was just the Patrol.

The Patrol had weapons. Horrible weapons, to ‘protect’ themselves with, if the werewolves ever decided to attack. The werewolves never attacked, but the Patrol did. Silver batons, silver bullets, silver cuffs, silver chains. The werewolves didn’t know that the silver muzzles existed until one of their ancestors came back to the den with one still attached to his face.

The muzzle is a simple thing, made from heavy cloth that’s lined with silver on the inside. It’s durable, with a clasp that hooks behind the back of the head, securing it in place and out of reach from any prying claws. 

It scares him, how something so small can cause so much damage.

“I found the cuffs with granddad’s stuff too. Man, he must’ve had a fun job, don’t you think? Beating the shit out of wolves for a living? I would kill to have a job like that.” Brett’s snide voice brings Wyatt out of his thoughts, a low growl rumbling from the back of his throat.

Brett chuckles, like this is all one big game.

Which to him, Wyatt supposes, is.

If his granddad and all the men before him and after him were part of the Z-Patrol, that meant Brett grew up wanting to do those same things. If he held resentment towards the wolves for not being able to follow in his granddad’s footsteps, because they didn’t use those methods anymore, then that’s where all this was coming from.

Brett thought Wyatt owed him this, this job that had been taken away from him decades ago.

The thought causes Wyatt’s heart to beat faster.

“I’ve heard stories,” Brett continues, glancing over at Kyle and Austin on either side of him, “that when a werewolf touches silver, they sizzle like an egg in a frying pan.” Sanchez and Avery hold Wyatt tighter, their fingernails cutting into warm skin. “What do you say about seeing if these stories are real?”

This can’t be real, Wyatt thinks in alarm as the three teenagers advance towards him, digging around in their pockets for things he can’t see. None of this can possibly be real, this can’t be happening to him right now.

He’s back at home, Willa beside him, her hand squeezing his knee as they smile over at Wynter rambling to the were-pups about all the pebbles she found earlier that day, her face lighting up with joy, their little faces gazing up at her with pure awe.

He’s home at the den, safe, as Willa knocks into his shoulder before making her way over to where a skinny were-pup sits, holding out the last piece of meat on her plate.

He’s home at den, watching the stars blink and flicker in the sky, silence between him and his sister as they gaze into the unknown.

He’s—

The pain shocks him, bringing him back to reality.

When he opens his eyes—he doesn’t even remember closing them—Brett’s directly in front of him, Kyle and Austin on either side of him, and there’s a swiss army knife in his hand, silver from the hilt to the blade, pressed against the bare skin of his arm. The sound of sizzling bounces off the trees surrounding them, loud, thundering, and Wyatt fights against the urge to scream. If he opens his mouth the muzzle will—

Brett pulls back the blade, slicing Wyatt’s skin with it.

Wyatt’s previous thoughts disappear, and a new one takes over. He could die out here. He could be left for dead, silver preventing him from screaming, blood streaming from cuts barely healed by his moonstone, never to see Willa or the rest of the pack again.

He . . . he doesn’t want to _die_.

“Please,” he gasps out, wincing from the burn the word leaves on his lip. “Please don’t,”

Brett’s eyes, which had been curiously watching the way Wyatt’s skin had burned before the blood had started to slide down his arm, doesn’t look up.

In fact he moves over to Wyatt’s other arm with a new energy, pressing the silver blade down again, Wyatt flinching in pain. It’s excruciating, being in so much pain and unable to make a sound in fear of an even greater pain. He makes another slash and then leans back, like he’s admiring his work and just as he goes to say something, Wyatt’s moonstone necklace shines blue.

“What the fuck?” Brett spits, taking a step back, his friends following.

Wyatt growls when he feels the power flowing through him, the moonstone healing his wounds and soothing the churning in his stomach.

Their moonstone necklaces were fickle little things. They healed the wolves, but only if blood was drawn. Silver sometimes blocked the necklaces from working, which is why the cuts on both of his arms are closed, but some of the burns from the silver stay.

Wyatt’s necklace is torn from his neck before he realizes what’s happening.

Brett’s fingers close around the string and pull back, the clasp snapping as the jock holds the stone in his hand, staring down at it in anger. He looks back up at Wyatt and continues to stare at him as he drops the rock to the ground and raises his foot.

_"No!”_

The crack sounds like a gunshot to Wyatt’s ears.

“Now that that’s out of the way, we can have some real fun, huh, mutt?”

What happens next is a matter of flashes, Wyatt’s gaze locked on his necklace, cracked straight down the middle on the forest floor. What was a werewolf without his necklace? It wasn’t as bad as being without his beta markings—that was a sign of disrespect, to have someone else other than the alpha remove them—but the thought still tears at his heart.

The knife’s back on him, burning both spots on his arms again, Brett even going as far as leaving a third burn directly across his right wrist, mimicking a line.

The pain is horrible, searing his skin, every movement causing him to flinch, and a part of him wishes he wasn’t conscious.

Austin and Kyle are pressing school rings from their parents, silver through and through, up and down his arms, chuckling and experimenting as they pull and drag and press and press harder.

He’s so distracted by all the pain that when Brett holds the knife to his neck, slowly pressing it into his skin, Wyatt struggles from the shock of it before crying out, his voice escaping in a hoarse scream that doesn’t reach past the trees.

He says nothing as he stares into Wyatt’s eyes, pressing the blade further and further, so far that Wyatt thinks it’s how he’s going to die, right there and then, but then he’s pulling the blade back and smirking.

He closes the blade and tucks it back into one of his pockets, throwing his arms up, startling the wolf and causing him to flinch. His friends laugh at Wyatt’s fear but Brett just watches him, his lips suddenly pulling into a deep frown.

Wordlessly he reaches behind his neck and undoes his necklace, the letter M swaying back and forth as he clutches it in a fist.

Everything’s silent for a moment, Wyatt’s ragged breathing the only thing anybody can hear.

Then Brett holds up his necklace and says, “I think we need a finishing touch,” before walking around to Wyatt’s back. His chest starts rising and falling rapidly in pain and _panic_ as he fights desperately against the two jocks holding him, not caring what burned where. He wasn’t going to get, he couldn’t be—

“Grab the knife from my pocket. We’ll have to do the rest of the letters homemade,” Wyatt hears Brett mutter to Austin and then to his friends holding him, “Hold him down. I don’t want him smudging the letters.” 

Wyatt’s shirt is pulled up, revealing an empty canvas.

Brett mutters to himself some more before picking a random spot.

When the necklace is pressed against his skin, Wyatt growls, but after, when that knife that’s silver with a silver blade and savage hands guiding it, is pushed into his skin, he can’t stop the scream.

Time seems to pass in slow motion as the three boys stand at Wyatt’s back, and he’s in so much agony that he doesn’t even register when the blade is finally removed from his skin. He’s shoved to the side, smacking into the ground with little remorse and then they’re all kicking him, pain all over, so much pain that he starts to fade in and out, there one minute and gone the next.

He’s laying on his side, every inch of him aching, when Brett couches beside him.

Wyatt can see his smile through the haze.

“You’re nothing,” he whispers harshly. “You’re not a human and you sure as hell aren’t a werewolf. Don’t werewolves fight back?” His chuckle makes Wyatt close his eyes, his heart pounding in fear of what he might do next. “You’re nothing but a stray mutt.” His thumb presses against his beta markings, smearing them before roughly wiping his cheek clean.

He gets back to his feet, kicks Wyatt in the gut one last time for good measure and grits out, “Mutt,” before him, and four other sets of footsteps, retreat, disappearing back the way they came.

Wyatt feels like he’s dying, and he thinks it too.

There’s no one to hear him yell and howling with the muzzle on would prevent him from ever being able to howl again. His arms are sore from being trapped behind his back for so long, his wrists chaffed and rubbed raw from the silver surrounding them.

He thinks he might die as he slips unconscious once again.

.

.

.

He hears the footsteps before he sees them.

He flinches involuntarily as they get closer, rousing him awake.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes, knowing _they’ve come back to finish the job_. He wants to go home. Back to the den. S'mores with Willa and Wynter and all his other packmates smushed alongside him.

He wants to see Willa one last time, before he moves on. He didn’t get to see his parents a last time before they died, but if he was going to die, he needed to see her, at least once. He needed her too much to move on without her.

The footsteps belong to Willa, who finds him an hour later, her suspicions getting the better of her.

She had watched Wynter win two beer pong games before deciding to search for him, and when she went looking, she couldn’t find him anywhere in the house. She had started to ask around then. When no one had an answer for her, even after threatening, she had started to grow worried.

It wasn’t like her brother to wander off and not return without telling her where he was going, one way or another.

Not wanting to alert the other wolves of her worry—when she could in fact be worrying over nothing—she instead found her way back to Wynter and told her she was heading back to the den. Wynter said she would go with her but Willa told her she was okay and to make sure the rest of the pack got back before it got too late.

Her search for Wyatt continued after that, as she combed through the forest behind Brett’s house, getting more and more worried when he wasn’t anywhere close to the house.

Wandering to the middle of the forest, she had seen something out of the corner of her eye, approaching it carefully, and her heart had lurched into her throat when she saw that tuft of white hair sticking up from the ground.

Which brought her to now as she runs over to her brother, panic swelling inside her.

She finds him on the ground, muzzle still clamped around his chin.

"Oh God," she mutters, falling to her knees beside him. He whimpers when she touches his shoulder, "Wyatt?" She brushes the tips of her fingers over the muzzle, wincing from the burns it leaves, and tries to stop her panic from getting any worse.

A silver muzzle? Someone put a silver muzzle on her brother? Anger bursts through her. She’ll kill them. She’ll kill whoever did this to him and they’ll never think to mess with the pack again.

Wyatt whimpers again and Willa realizes that her other hand is still pressed to his shoulder. Her eyes meet his and a selfish part of her wished she had never looked, because she had never seen this kind of pain in her brother’s eyes before, so raw and hopeless and desperate for help.

She swallows and for the first time in a while, she doesn’t know what to do.

Wyatt was attacked, left for dead, and she had no idea. She was supposed to protect him. That’s what they did, they protected each other.

And she couldn’t even do that.

She squeezes the shoulder she’s still holding as gently as she can, trying to calm him, knowing that if he picks up on her own fear that his will become worse. “Hey,” she whispers, “hey, hey. I’m right here. I’m right here, okay? I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere.” She squeezes his shoulder once more, “I’m gonna get you out of this, I promise. I’m here.”

She sees his eyes flash, her words registering as he slowly nods his head, which is barely a nod at all, but she’s grateful he’s with her enough to understand what she’s saying. 

It’s fairly late into the night by now, the shine from the moon the only thing allowing her to see, even with her werewolf eyesight.

She quickly assesses her brother, noticing almost immediately that his moonstone necklace is gone. She sees dried blood caked on both of his arms, his hands locked behind his back in silver cuffs, that damn muzzle over the bottom half of his face. But what’s most startling is that his beta marks are gone, wiped away by a cruel hand.

“Your beta markings, Wyatt,” she murmurs, carefully dragging a finger across the spot the markings should be, “Oh Wyatt, what did they do to you?”

The words seem to break something inside of him. She hears his breath hitch and looks back into his eyes, shocked but not at all surprised to find tears starting to fall, sliding down his cheeks and disappearing behind the muzzle.

Her stomach twists. She’s sick of looking at the damn thing. To hell with herself.

Faster than Wyatt can stop her, Willa reaches behind his head and rips the clasp that’s holding the muzzle in place before holding both her hands to either side and carefully lifting it off of him.

He hears the sizzle of her skin as she holds tightly onto the cursed invention, not wanting to burn him further, and once the muzzle is away from him she tosses it away from them. She helps him sit up, now sitting on his butt instead of lying on his side.

Wyatt’s eyes are immediately drawn to his sister’s hands, her palms seared.

Guilt fills him, consuming him, and Willa must notice because she’s ignoring the pain to grab both of his shoulders and pull him into a hug.

She doesn’t hold him as tightly as she wants to because she’s afraid he’s hurt worse beyond what she can see, and she hears him inhale shakily before pushing his face into her shoulder, crying softly.

They stay like that, clutching each other for so long that Willa’s hands begin to numb, from the chill of the night air and the injuries now resting there. She doesn’t care. She’ll hug him forever, if that’s what he wants. He shifts against her a few moments later and slowly she removes her arms from around him, and when they’re face to face again, Willa has trouble keeping her expression calm because—

His face is bright red.

“Wyatt,” she whispers, her voice nearly inaudible as she goes to reach for him again.

He flinches, not expecting the sudden movement and goes to say her name, his lips forming the letters, but a violent cough tears through him, jerking his entire body.

All the pain that had numbed to dull throbbing comes back to him in full force as more coughs rack through him, one after another, and Willa is almost afraid to even attempt to touch him, but then he slumps forwards, falling back into her. She catches him gently, her arms wrapping around him, his skin burning under her touch, his coughing turning into dry wheezes.

She’s scared.

“I’m right here,” she says, struggling to keep her voice strong, “I’m right here, Wyatt. I’m not going anywhere.” Another wheeze and then he groans, a soft growl that’s more of a whine slipping past his lips. His eyes begin to flutter and her heart jumps into her throat again. If he passed out—

“No, no, no, no you can’t pass out. Wyatt,” she gently shakes him, his eyes half-lidded. “Wyatt please,” she pleads, her voice giving way, cracking. “Please, Wyatt, don’t—”

He had held on for so, so long. Through the words, the pain, through everything. He had held on for so, so, so long, but now Willa was there, and Willa always took care of him. He was safe with Willa. It was okay to give in if Willa was there.

His eyes slip shut and his sister’s frantic voice is the last thing he hears before he’s completely gone.

.

.

.

He wakes up slowly.

There’s a presence beside him, wrapping something soft around his right bicep, their fingers gentle as they go around and around. It’s a struggle but eventually he’s able to get his eyes open, blinking a few times before taking in his surroundings.

He’s laying down in his cot—a simple thing made from sturdy wood and twine years ago that was still holding strong—about a quarter of the way from the stone floor.

There’s a lantern flickering on the makeshift nightstand next to him, the deep oranges and light yellows highlighting the alpha markings on his sister’s face as she tends to his wounds.

Her fingers are quick and tender as she finishes wrapping the injury on his arm before moving to his other side, blocking his view of the doorway. The den is dead silent, excluding some snores that echo down the hallway, and Willa is just as silent as everything else.

His other arm is already wrapped, and so is his neck, cotton draped across so that the cut didn’t get any more irritated than it already was. His mouth, from under his nose all the way to the underside of his chin, isn’t burning anymore but it does ache, a steady throb that makes him debate if he’s even able to open his mouth and speak.

His lips are chapped, burned some around the corners. His arms are sore, peppered with varying degrees of burns that he’s not sure will ever heal, even with power from the moonstone.

His moonstone. His moonstone. His—

He starts to panic, dread filling him as he goes to sit up, clutching the side of the cot, his knuckles turning white from the force. His breathing picks up, filling his ears until it’s the only thing he hears, his breathing and his galloping heartbeat.

His moonstone was still out in the forest; cracked, dishonored, _forgotten_.

_His_ moonstone.

His mother’s moonstone.

He needed to get out of there. He needed to stand up and go find it. He had nothing else of his mother’s, not even a grave to visit, and Willa she—she—she would hate him forever, for losing something so important, for losing something that could never be replaced.

He—He needed it. He needed to go find it _he needed to_ —

A hand closes around his forearm, making him jump.

His panicked eyes lock with his sister’s worried ones.

Around her neck rests his moonstone necklace, the string good as new, her own hidden behind it. The crack is still there, mocking him, but Willa’s squeezing his arm before his mind can wander, forcing him to _come back to her_.

She waits until he’s able to calm himself down a little more, his grip on the side of the bed going slack, his back sliding back against the mattress, his messy hair meeting the softness of the pillow he’s used since he was five, even going as far as carrying the damn thing around with him when he was six and some bullies threatened to take it from him and throw it into the river nearby.

Willa almost smiles at the memory.

Almost.

“I wanted to wait until you were awake,” she says quietly, letting go of his arm and reaching up, lifting his necklace from around her wild curls. He knows what she’s talking about without her having to say it, as she leans forward and carefully slips the necklace over his head, allowing the stone to connect with the front of his shirt.

She wanted to wait to restore his beta markings, to restore his place in the pack, and the balance it brought.

She reaches down next to her, grabbing the marking brush from where the case sits on the floor. She dabs the brush in the paint and then leans over him so she can restore his beta marks, the brush feather-light against his skin.

As soon as the beta markings are back in their proper place he feels power grown within him, flowing through his veins, warming his chest, soothing the aches he feels all over.

His eyes flash yellow and he growls quietly, bringing a soft smile to Willa’s lips. His eyes return to their normal color as he turns his head so he can meet hers, and all at once, a million different emotions slam into him. Removing one’s beta markings was the utmost disrespect to an alpha—

The words blurt from his lips before he can stop them.

“I didn’t mean to disrespect—”

“You didn’t do anything, Wyatt,” she whispers softly but sternly enough that he gets the point. She couldn’t believe that her brother was beaten half to death and the first thing he wanted to do was apologize for something he had no control over.

Her hand returns to his arm, slipping down into his hand, and it’s then that he notices that her fingers don’t feel like her fingers. His eyes flicker down and hers follow. White gauze, green paste peeking out from underneath, is carefully wrapped around each of her digits, followed by some padding on both her palms.

Guilt churns his stomach, twisting his insides around.

He burned her hands. He burned his sister. He was the reason—

“I know what you’re thinking.” Willa states from beside him. His eyes move to her face but hers stay on the hand she’s still holding. She squeezes. Reminds him that she’s _right here_. _I’m right here, okay? I’m right here and I’m not going anywhere._

“It was my choice.” She continues, unwavering. “I don’t care what happened to me. I had to save you.” She squeezes his hand again, harder this time, and he wonders how much it really reassures her, being able to hold him and know that he’s right here with her.

He wonders if she knows how much it reassures him.

“No matter what, I had to save you, so I don’t want to hear anything about it. Okay?” Her voice wavers at the end, slightly, but slightly is enough for him to pick up on. He squeezes her hand back, his fingers curling around the bandages.

“Okay.”

It’s silent again.

Wynter snores the loudest, and Wyatt wants to chuckle and ask how many games of beer pong she had won. He wants to ask if Willa enjoyed her night before he ruined it, but he bites those words back. She wouldn’t think that question was funny.

It’s blunt, and so, _so_ Willa, when she asks, “What happened?”

She was never just one to let things go.

Wyatt shifts, already uncomfortable with where this conversation was heading. “Willa it’s—”

“If you say ‘nothing’ I’m going to lose it—”

“—nothing.”

Her glare cuts right through him. “This isn’t nothing, Wyatt,” she hisses, anger that had been bubbling since she found her brother half-dead in the middle of a forest finally breaking the surface. “You got _attacked_. If Addison were here she would say it was a ‘hate-crime’ and add it to their next protest.”

“This _wasn’t_ a hate-crime—”

“Oh, it, it wasn’t?” The bitterness in her tone is hard to miss. “Someone, or some people, cornered you, beat you, scarred you, hurt you, and left you for _dead_ and if you don’t think that something—”

“I don’t need a recap Willa,” Wyatt snaps, pulling his hand from hers. “I was there.”

His words stop her, but they don’t stop her onslaught of emotions as they boil over.

“Who was it? Who did this to you?”

Wyatt scoffs, “Nobody, Willa.”

“ _Wyatt_ —”

“ _Willa_.”

There’s a tremble to his hand that she hates.

She just wants him safe. She wants to take all of this back, like it never happened in the first place. She wants to take away his pain and make it hers, because her _job_ was to protect him. Who was she, if she couldn’t protect her brother? “Drop it, please,” he mumbles, blinking fast before turning his gaze to the ceiling. “Please.”

“Okay,” she whispers, sounding defeated. Sounding heartbroken. “Okay.”

Wyatt nods and they sit together for a while, but she notices that his eyes begin to droop, slipping closed for a while before he jerks and wakes himself back up. She reaches out and touches his wrist gently, “Sleep.”

Half-awake, her brother mumbles something unintelligible in response.

When she goes to stand up, his hand shoots out, grabbing ahold of hers, stopping her. “Are you gonna leave me?” He mumbles groggily, exhaustion from everything and their shared words finally taking their toll on him.

Sleep calls him, beckons him, asks him to fall under, but he refuses.

He can’t, not without, without knowing.

Willa’s eyes remind him of his mother’s. She looks like their mother, a spitting image. He doesn’t know how he would’ve survived all those years without her. He was always too emotional, too forgiving. She was everything he was not, and he doesn’t think he would have anything without her. Their bond was something unbreakable.

Willa sits back down, squeezing his hand, closing her other one on top.

“I am never going to leave you,” she whispers, and Wyatt, for the first time in what feels like forever, smirks, his eyes slipping shut. She can’t help but roll her eyes, but inside, she wouldn’t have him any other way.

“Love you sis,”

She smiles. “Love you too.”

He’s asleep in seconds, his breathing evening out slowly and Willa exhales, just watching his chest rise and fall for a while. She had thought she had lost him back there, really lost him. She doesn’t think she’s ever been so scared in her life.

She sighs, pushing all those thoughts out of her head.

She double-checks all his wrappings before noticing that the bottom corner of his shirt is singed, and her curiosity gets the better of her as she gingerly pushes him onto his side, her brother letting out a soft growl but otherwise unaffected.

He was too heavy of a sleeper, she thinks inwardly with a chuckle before inspecting the burn mark, the marks looking like they lead upwards. She slowly begins to lift his shirt, remembering that she never did check his back for any injuries, and her heart drops when she sees—

She feels sick.

.

.

.

They don’t talk about it.

He knows she saw it.

He doesn’t know that her hands shook so badly while bandaging it that she had to take breaks. He doesn’t know that the second after she had finished bandaging that horrible scar she had grabbed his hand and held tighter, falling asleep with nothing but nightmares.

She knows he went through hell.

She doesn’t know the phantom pain he feels in the tips of his fingers everytime he sees the faint burns etched into hers, scarred forever because of him. She doesn’t know exactly what happened.

_She never will._


End file.
